This shallow grief
by nepetation
Summary: Nobody really knows what they're doing anymore. (Takes place after episode 12 of season 12, Bitters and Palomo but there's no tag for their names)
1. Chapter 1

**/AN: There's more to be posted next week, but this was written for tumblr user agent-jagwa/**

Bitters was apathetic. Bitters was lazy. Bitters was a lot of things, including pessimistic.

And why shouldn't he be? There was no bright side to look on in his situation. He was balls deep in a war between the Rebels and the Federal Army, and he wasn't going to pretend that the side he stood on had a chance. They were outmanned, outgunned, untrained and inexperienced. Hell, Jensen was young enough to have braces- she couldn't be more than what, seventeen years old? Yeah, lots of good a bunch of scared teenagers would do.

Bitters learned a long time ago that this was more like an extermination than a war, and he and his fellow troops were the pests that needed to be destroyed.

Sometimes he found himself wondering why he was still even in this shit hole of an army. 'Because someone has to keep Palomo from getting his stupid ass in trouble all the time,' he'd decide.

It wasn't like he had anyone back home whose freedom he was fighting for- unlike Smith, who'd left behind a precious wife along with two beautiful children. There was no one to make proud, since it was made clear years ago that anyone worth looking up to wasn't guaranteed to stick around long in these conditions.

But then there was Grif.

It was weird, but for the first time in a long while, Bitters felt like he could connect with someone, look up to him even. If Grif could survive all that he'd been through with that laid back attitude, then why couldn't Bitters? Granted, after all the stories he'd heard, the lieutenant had expected more from the orange clad soldier, but that didn't matter. Grif wasn't some perfect hero- none of the Reds and Blues were- but he still did some heroic shit, and well, that gave Bitters hope.

Hope that maybe, just maybe, the rebels really could stand a chance now that these four were fighting with them. Yeah, they were idiots, but they were idiots who apparently knew what they were doing. That, or they were extremely lucky. Bitters may be a pessimist, but in this case, he preferred to go with the former.

With Grif put in charge of him, Bitters finally had someone he actually wanted to look at him with... pride? Okay, pride would be a bit out of character for Grif, but just to be seen as something more than a good for nothing kid would work for the lieutenant.

So he worked hard and with time, earned the trust of his leading captain. He actually made an effort during the Gold Team's raids to the kitchen, and when the five of them sat hiding and gorging themselves with their prizes, Bitters decided that he was actually having fun. He joked around more with his teammates, and was less harsh in the way he spoke with them. Grif would clap a hand on his shoulder and congratulate him on the sweets he'd snagged.

He still couldn't bring himself to care about his place in the war.

Maybe that was why he was listening to Felix tell Kimball about the godawful death of his new squad's four captains. If he had tried a little harder, made an effort to begin with, then maybe those assholes wouldn't be dead. Maybe Grif, the one asshole he looked up to, would be alive, and giving him a reason to fight, to make someone proud for once.

But no, instead, he'd fucked up and of course someone had to pay. If he hadn't been wasting his time stealing jelly fucking cream pies that ultimately landed his head in a toilet, he could have been training, being productive like he should have been.

Now there'd be no hearty pat on the back, or encouraging grin flashed his way. He was apathetic. He was lazy. Who else but Grif would think he deserved anything like him that?

God damnit. How the hell does a guy like Grif- or any of those guys for that matter- just go and get themselves killed like that? Bitters couldn't tell who made him angrier-the Reds and Blues, for abandoning them for this fucking failure of a rescue; or at himself, for not even trying to live up to expectations so he could join them.

Against the Feds, there probably wasn't much he could have done, that was a given, but the fact that he wasn't even there to try, but could have been, just really made Bitters want to ram his head into a wall. Repeatedly.

Instead he stood by his teammates' sides, hands balled into tight fists, and a string of profanities rising in his throat like bile while Felix spoke.

The mercenary voice was hushed and low, and he paused often with a shuddering breath as he recounted what had happened. Bitters didn't think the guy was even capable of feeling torn apart by a soldier's death- he was kind of a dick like that.

"Oh my god," Jensen was the only one of them to speak. Her voice was quiet, fragile, broken, "They're really...?"

No one came to answer her, but her own shoulder shaking sobs.

Bitters wanted to say something, searched for comforting words, but nothing came. Yeah, Jensen was now openly wailing in Smith's arms, who hung his head low and let out a few tearful sounds of his own; and Palomo was looking like he'd dropped his ass on a sick puppy, but Bitters was just so filled with such unholy anger! He opened his mouth once, twice, three times before deciding things would be better if he kept his rude remarks to himself this time.

Bitters walked out then. He didn't want to belong there, or in this army, or in this godforsaken war. He'd been stripped of his home, his family and friends, absolutely everything, and now even Grif, the guy who'd managed to throw a beast of a man over a cliff, was gone too. And who was to say that Bitters couldn't have helped if he'd been there?

The past few weeks he'd been practically a kid looking up to their idol, wanting to grow up enough to fill the latter's shoes. Now his idol was dead and he was once again left with nothing, and it was entirely his fucking fault.

He didn't belong in this war. He was still practically a kid after all.


	2. Chapter 2

**/AN: This chapter was written for tumblr user charcoalnine!/**

Bitters went back to his sqaud's bunk, pacing and muttering and raking trembling hands through his bleached hair. His helmet had been cast off the moment he opened the door, hurled at the wall with a dull thunk. He didn't bother to keep the tears back now. He let the pained sobs ravage his throat, and rubbed a little too hard against his tears with the back of his hand.

God, was he pathetic. What was he doing, crying in his room like some prissy assed loser?

Someone died, someone very close to him died, but that shit was to be expected. One would think he'd be used to it at this point but no, apparently he was still unable to handle it.

"Fuck!" he cried when legs suddenly lost their ability to support him and his knees crashed painfully with the hard floor.

That was how Palomo found him when he opened the door- crying and swearing and shaking with rage on the floor. The lieutenant stood at the door watching, helmet in hand, before tossing it on his own bed and crossing over to his mess of a teammate.

What was he supposed to do? He considered leaving, and calling Smith or Jensen over to deal with their other teammate, but he didn't even know where they were.

Anyway, the two were already probably off dealing with their own shit. Maybe he could just… silently leave. Walk out and let Bitters wallow alone, find his own place to mourn the captains deaths.

Watching his friend, shoulders shaking with grief, shot guilt through his gut for that thought.

Palomo wasn't too good at the whole consoling thing, especially when he need it just as much. Hell, he wasn't good at hardly anything, for that matter. The only reason he was even in this squad was because of his dumb luck, being the only surviving member of Tucker's old squad.

He almost couldn't believe that his captain was dead now. All that time he spent trying to be like like him- his hero- and was still absolutely hated, and now the guy was gone. It left a crushing blow to Palomo's spirit. He wasn't sure if he'd be able to cope, especially since Cunningham, who he'd been such great friends with.

He was sure that he'd just fuck things up, but knowing how broken he felt with Tucker's death, it would only seem right to offer a shoulder for his orange trimmed-friend. Well, maybe more like a comforting pat on the back. Tell him he's here for him. There'd be no way for him to mess that up too.

His armour seemed to gain thirty pounds in weight as he made himself over to the Bitter's form. The other looked up momentarily, eyes falling on Palomo as he crouched next to the him. The look of hell fire rage shot his way made the younger lieutenant shrink back, and he just about sure to earn some biting remark, sarcasm in tone.

But that's not what happened. Instantly Bitter's had himself latched onto the other in a tight embrace, with one arm looped around his neck. Palomo was knocked back with the force of the older one slamming into his lanky self. Of course, he didn't give any second thought to the action, and let himself crumple with the other.

"Man, we're fucked in this war," Came Bitters' voice, hoarse and shaky, "They left us and totally screwed us all over."

Palomo didn't know what to say to that. They did leave, and in doing so took away the Rebel's real fighting chance at pulling through in this war. They knowingly risked their lives, in a mission the lieutenants should have joined them in. To Palomo, it was obvious that Tucker and his crew realised there was no way the lieutenants would be ready.

"Well… I don't- I," He couldn't find his voice to defend them. He wasnt even sure he wanted to. What was there to gain from sticking up for those who thought he was a complete failure?

Especially if they were dead?

Bitters heard the break in his voice. He could hear the pain in his friend as dread crept over him. He shouldn't be doing this- sobbing in the younger kid's arms.

He wasn't supposed to care about anything, just let everything roll off of him like water on a duck. And here he was in this most pitiful state, clinging to Palomo for support.

If anyone here needed comforting, it was probably Palomo, and Bitters knew that. He'd looked up to Grif, sure, but Palomo practically worshipped Tucker. It was almost sickening, knowing how badly he'd wanted to impress the guy.

Bitters didn't deserve the secure arms around him, to be look on with worry and sympathy, to be comforted about his loss. He wasn't supposed to be weak like this. He was supposed to shove this shit down and deal with it alone. He was supposed to be patting Palomo on the back, and telling him things would be okay, even though he knew they weren't.

They weren't okay. Palomo wasn't okay. He was pretending to be, Bitter's knew that, but he couldn't make himself do anything about it. Fuck, if he was being selfish, but he just let Palomo sit on the floor with him, broken and screwed up and still offering help.

Bitters really needed it. He really, really did. He wasn't one to give clue to how he felt. Everything was just unleashing itself here, and he honestly didn't want to stop it. Not for Palomo, not for anyone.

It was messed up of him, but Bitters never considered himself to be a great guy. That was Palomo, who immature as he was, at least had the decency to help his teammate wade through his grief.

It was a shame his asshole of a captain couldn't see that.


End file.
